


Choice

by the_pale_rider



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pale_rider/pseuds/the_pale_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rogal Dorn, The Haunted, leads his Legion, the Blackened Fist in an compliance of a defiant world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rogal Dorn, The Haunted, Primarch of the Blackened Fist, VII Legion](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/101879) by Hyaenidae. 



The planetary council of Triaanides assembled in the Aitheon’s central plaza to receive their visitors. Gaggles of bureaucrats, scribes, functionaries and hangers on flocked around the seven members of the council, fussing and squabbling amongst themselves for position.  


The planetwide broadcast from the fleet orbiting their home had declared that they were emissaries of the Imperium of Man and its ruler, a man who called himself the Emperor of Mankind. They claimed to be from Terra, ancient birthworld of humanity and were seeking to reunite Man’s lost interstellar empire. They requested to meet with the planet’s rulers to discuss their world’s acceptance into the Imperium. This had been met with a wave of discussion; either in support or defiance of these strangers. The ruling council decided to accept the visitors, to learn more about the Imperium and this Emperor.  


A trio of flyers descended with a roar, screaming across the clear skies of the capital. The assembled dignitaries gasped in shock and surprise. Their own flyers were sleek and designed for comfort. The visitors’ aircraft were brutal hulks of metal, snub nosed and bristling with weaponry.  
The flyers touched down in clouds of dust and grit, engines howling. As they powered down, ramps dropped with a clang and from inside, emerged giants. Giants clad massive suits of granite grey armour. Numerous barbed chains rattled and clanked against their armour. Their oversized gauntlets were streaked black to the elbow. Some amongst their number wore ragged black capes. The delegation fell silent in face of these grim figures. More filed out and assembled in blocks of ten in front of them. Soon, over thirty of the strangers stood before them in perfect silence, as if waiting for something.  


Just as Consul Sarantos was about to step forward to welcome them, the assembled soldiers stood to attention in perfect unison as a figure emerged from the lead flyer. If the delegation had thought the soldiers had been giants, the man that appeared from the shadows of the flyer was truly enormous. He stood at least head and shoulders above his warriors. Clad in the same grey armour and chains, he excluded a grim and sinister aura. He was bare headed, his eyes soulless black orbs set in chiselled features of pale marble. His hair was a short spiked shock of bone white. He strode towards the council and his men followed in lockstep behind him. As they approached, many shrank back but the council stood firm. They refused to be intimidated into submission by these strangers.  


All the warriors halted whilst their apparent commander continued forward with a single soldier following. Now this close, Sarantos could make out swirling cuniform etched onto their armour. Both mens’ pauldrons bore an insignia, a clenched black fist surrounded by a spiked halo. But the commander’s most noticeable feature was the lack of armour on his forearms, and the bare iron hard flesh was stained black. Saranatos stopped staring as both giants halted before him and his fellow council members. They utterly dwarfed them; towering over them all. Licking his suddenly dry lips, he forced himself to look up into those dead black eyes.  


“We-we-we…uh. We welcome you friend, to the city of Aitheon, planetary capital of Triaanides. Both I and my fellow council members look forward to talking with you. There is much to discuss.”  


The giant look Sarantos and the other councillors one by one, his black eyes boring into them. He then nodded to his solider, who stepped forward and spoke. His voice was a hissing whisper that still carried to the ears of the entire delegation.  


“I am Sigismund, First Captain of the Envenomed. I speak for Lord Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Blackened Fist Legion.” He indicated to the silent demigod beside him. “We are part of the Emperor of Mankind’s dream to reunite humanity and push back our enemies. If you agree to accept Compliance and Imperial rule, we will share our technology and culture, the Pax Imperialis. You will supply men and resources to the Great Crusade and tithes to Terra…”  


“This is preposterous!” shouted Cyrilla, one of the seven. “You think we will just submit to you? Relinquish out sovereignty?”  


“Indeed,” snapped another. “We have survived alone for centuries without any outside help. Your Emperor is nothing but a petty warlord!” To make his feelings clear, he spat at the feet of the giant, Sigismund.  


“Enough.”  


The single word silenced the outraged council. It was Lord Dorn who had spoken. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but it carried an authority that ended all debate. All eyes turned to the pale demigod.  


“You have made your choice. Remember that when we come for you. This was your choice.”  


Without another word, Lord Dorn and Sigismund turned and led their party back to the flyers. The delegation muttered amongst themselves, wondering what Lord Dorn’s words had meant. Sarantos stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Dorn. He wasn’t sure, but something akin to regret had passed over the primarch’s face as he spoke. But regret for what?  


\------------------  


They came at night. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon and darkness fell across Aitheon, the Blackened Fists descended on the city. But it was not a textbook Astartes assault.  


It began with horrific screams being broadcast across the city and the planet. The screams of the unfortunates being tortured by the Legion to serve a greater purpose. Their voices filled the airwaves, choking and begging for mercy. Nothing could stop the broadcasts. As the local security forces were mobilised to search for the source, the city’s power grid went offline, engulfing it utter darkness. Unable to see and with the terrible screaming continuing unabated, soon the entire city was awake and paralysed by fear. Suddenly the screams cut off, replaced by crackling static.  
Materialising out of shadows, the Legion struck. Asartes moved through the city’s spires, bludgeoning the terrified mortals to pulp with crackling powerfists. Others were rounded up and flayed alive, their screams echoing through the open vox channels. Silent killers clad in black skin capes leapt out from dark, hacking and shredding with claws and spiked gauntlets. Sigismund led the Envenomed on a brutal campaign of violence and terror against the city’s militia, isolating and stalking them through the darkness, picking of their fellows until the survivors were begging for death. Corpses were strung up, left as warnings to those still alive. Men, women and children, all innocent, were butchered whilst they screamed at the darkness.  


Amongst all this horror, the planetary council barricaded themselves in their audience chamber. The screams of the city as it died carried up to them. Nothing could block out the awful sounds. Sarantos was dumb with shock. He’d never have believed this was the price of their defiance. He had expected invasion and war, but not the slaughter of innocents. An explosion boomed from below and the floor shook.  


“They’re inside…” whimpered Cyrilla.

Sarantos swallowed, trying to slow his panicked breathing. His heart was hammering his in chest, his brow beaded with sweat. They all knew what was coming for them.

The lumen strips flickered once then died; the backup power must have been shut down. Sarantos lifted his brazier, letting the dim light partly fill the cavernous room. All the seven council members could hear was each other’s rapid breathing and whimpering. A heavy ponderous tread moved steadily along the corridor outside, accompanied by the rattle of chains. Legate Elissa shrieked in fear and scrambled to the far the chamber, trying to put as much distance between herself and the approaching sound. It stopped outside the chambers’ heavy doors. The silence stretched on, broken only by the council’s shallow breathing.

A thunderous crash tore the door off its hinges and it was flung aside as if it weighed nothing. In its frame, illuminated by the faint light, stood Lord Rogal Dorn, his grey armour splattered with gore and strung with bloody skins and skulls. The council was transfixed with fear.

“No! Please!! Please…have mercy!!” cried Cyrilla, sobbing and near hyper ventilating.

Lord Dorn did not reply. He stepped into the chamber.

“Lord Dorn! Why are you doing this? What is the point of all this?” Sarantos was surprised at his own calmness.

Dorn looked at him with those black eyes. Sarantos was dumbfounded to see that his pale face seemed wet.

“You made a choice. This is the result. Your defiance and punishment will serve as an example and threat to the rest of Triaanides” hissed Dorn. Then he attacked.

It was a blur. A man of such size and bulk should not have been able to move at such speed. In the blink of an eye, he had grabbed Cyrilla, snapped her neck with his fist and flung her broken body across the chamber. Elissa died next, her body ripped into bloody chunks and scattered. The others died in equally horrific ways, their screams turning to wet gurgling cries and then silence. Consul Sarantos was the last. He tried to run, to reach the doorway. He didn’t get more than two paces before Dorn had him in his grasp.

“Agggh…P-p-p-please…Lord…ack…Dorn,” he gasped has Dorn’s massive black fist enclosed his head.

“My name isn’t Rogal Dorn. It is The Haunted.”

It was the last thing Sarantos heard, before The Haunted crushed his skull to bloody pulp. His hands stained with blood, The Haunted left the chamber to watch his sons unleash terror upon the millions of Aitheon’s inhabitants.

This wasn’t the first city they’d massacred to achieve Compliance, nor would it be the last. That was their role and duty. To do the unthinkable to achieve his father’s dream. It always came back to choice: the choice between peaceful compliance or a violent death. The people of Nostramo had been offered that choice, but they had rejected it. They enslaved him. Tortured him. Cut him. Whipped him. Broken him. After that, there was no choice. Those murderers, thieves, rapists…criminals. They refused to listen. To change. He’d had no choice. It had to be done. He’d purged each city of its sinners. None were spared. All were guilty. And he was forever marked for his actions, his arms stained black with the blood of an entire world.

He would offer each world the same choice he had offered them. He would purge the galaxy of those who defied his father. He would do whatever was necessary, regardless of what his brothers thought of him. He knew it had to be done, that he and his sons would have to be the monsters to create the Imperium. He took no pleasure in it; he hated that it had to be done. But he would do his duty, whatever the cost.


End file.
